The Woman in the White Kimono
Page 22
It was just a simple group photograph of the first division from their yearbook, but it was a photo I’d never seen before. It was as though, somehow, I got a piece of my father back. A piece I didn’t know was lost. It hit me in that moment just how much I missed him.
With the overhead light on full, I sat up in my miniature room and sent thank-you emails, overwhelmed that perfect strangers, who didn’t even remember my father, took the time to reach out. And for someone to dig through personal keepsakes and attach a photo from the ship’s cruise book? Such a simple thing and yet it made an enormous impact.
It was just the hopeful nudge I’d needed to carry on with my search. I gazed at the photo of my father. I wasn’t going to let him down, or myself. I wanted answers. Tomorrow, I’d visit the traditional house, question neighbors, and if need be, I’d extend my trip and wait for the person who cared for the grounds.
The house might stand empty, but I wasn’t leaving Japan empty-handed.
* * *
I’d risen with the sun and enjoyed the free “well-balanced, body-friendly” breakfast of no omoi, which translated to “heavy.” There were pickles, tofu and even fried cheese and chicken bites. I sampled a little of everything but filled up on rice. Then I secured my belongings in the locker and packed a few things for the day, including my father’s letter. I’d hoped the home’s old address on the envelope might bridge the language barrier should I run into neighbors. At least they’d have a general idea of why I was there.
The walk to Zushi Station took about fifteen minutes, but only because I’d hurried. I’d rushed past teenagers touting surfboards on their way to the beach, wove around locals shopping the outside market and waved away merchants who beckoned obvious tourists like me inside. The Yokosuka line ran every thirty minutes and I wanted to catch the next train. I jogged the last hundred yards and arrived just as it approached the gate.
Once aboard, I found an empty seat and clicked through my travel app’s destination highlights. In Zushi, there was the Enmeiji Temple with a giant ancient red maple tree. I raised my eyebrows. The tree was over a thousand years old. Before, I thought Pops had snapped the photo of a traditional bride at a shrine near Tokyo, but now suspecting the photo was his bride, I needed to consider shrines closer to the base and the girl’s home.
Taura was directly between them, and it, too, listed one. The Yokosuka-shi Taura, also called the forgotten shrine since the woods had reclaimed the bright red gates that adorned the walking path. A giant stone fox waited at the end to reward those that braved the hike. The app cited hundreds of fox statues also adorned the woods, but it didn’t say why.
I marked both locations, then glanced up as the train curved around a corner. Tall, elegant yachts lined up along the pier and small colorful sailboats bobbed in front of the marina. To my right, lofty trees swayed in the breeze, and as we continued the broad arc, rooftops appeared between their branches. Within minutes, we glided into the Higashi-Zushi Station in the Numama district.
While the ride through Zushi was quick, the walk from the train depot to where the traditional home stood would take longer. I didn’t mind, as the surrounding woods were peaceful and, the breeze flapping their leaves like paper, warm.
Pops had once made this trip, and in spirit, I believed he was with me now. As I traveled to the traditional house that time forgot, I remembered...
“I almost turned back twice,” Pops had said. He’d dressed in uniform and fidgeted with his cap, nervous to meet her father—a merchant king. I was nervous just to see the house.
As I neared the top of the small hill, I stopped as I’d imagined Pops had, looked up and squinted against the late-morning sun. She told me I’d know it by the roof tiles.
And like my father, I knew it, too.
A white mist rose from the curved clay tiles as the sun warmed the morning dew and rolled over the edge like the dangling petals of a cherry blossom in an ornamental hair comb. Backlit by the sun, the large, white-walled structure almost glowed. There was a quiet, understated elegance to how it perched atop the hillside. And while the photo Yoshio took was stunning, to approach it in person was surreal. Time had indeed stopped. It was right out of my father’s story.
After Yoshio talked about the architecture, I researched the teahouse style and found the construction fascinating. I couldn’t understand how the interior paper walls could endure everyday use. Wouldn’t they tear? But the rough textured paper was crafted from the mulberry tree, the same trees the silkworms were found in, and were surprisingly strong. And what made it durable was the latticework that held the paper taut. If only I could peek inside. Movement from the side yard caught my eye.
My lips parted.
An elderly woman clipped white flowers from the low, dense foliage. They overflowed from the bamboo basket hanging from her arm. I squinted against the sun, then shielded my eyes but couldn’t get a good look due to her sun hat. I thought the house was empty?
Was that her?
There was only one way to find out. I smoothed out my hair, adjusted my blazer and, with a deep, calming breath, walked toward the house.
THIRTY-TWO
Japan, 1958
Back in bed, I rest with a full belly. I forced down the udon noodles that Sora snuck in. I need the strength if we are to escape tonight. Curled on my side, I shift to find a comfortable position, but there is none. Leaving sparks too much excitement, even my baby stirs.
My thoughts jump from Hajime, my baby and Sora, like a monkey swinging from one tree to the next. Three Monkeys. Hatsu, Jin and me. My heart squeezes. Sora could be the fourth. There are four in the old stories. He’s called Shizaru and crosses his arms to refuse evil. It fits. Sora surprises me with her help and want of her child. She pushes the action, and heaven pushes the intent. There must be a greater purpose to all of this.
Unless I’m blind? Did Grandmother not say that? No, no...it was Kiko. She yelled it when I told her my choice, of what I was considering. “You are blinded by love and cannot see what is true,” she had shouted.
My heavy lids open and close. Open and close. The wall is there and then it’s not. I curl up tighter and think of Hajime’s translucent-blue eyes and his parting words. “I promise,” he said. “Now and forever.”
“Always.” Were those true? Before long, I am lost in memory. Lost in love. Lost in dreamless sleep.
Better blind than hopeless.
* * *
“Ayieeeee!” Chiyo’s cries shake the house and disturb my slumber.
I blink, not yet awake, but no longer sleeping. She screams again. Then heavy footsteps and another shout.
Only this one is from Housemother. “Do not push, Chiyo! Wait. You must wait.”
Sora’s at my door. “Naoko, we must leave now.” She grabs my bag and throws random clothes inside. She looks frantic. Her eyes are wide, and her breathing is fast.
“Now?” I sit up, startled. I had only closed my eyes.
“Ahhieeee!” Another cry cuts through the night and jerks me to my feet. Okay, yes, we must leave now. Poor Chiyo. No, poor Chiyo’s baby. I move to stand but wobble. Adrenaline pumps through sleepy veins, willing my lethargic muscles to act. I push back my sweaty, matted hair and try to balance. Sharp needles prick my left foot, numb from sleeping wrong.
Sora steps to the door, leans out and listens. “Get dressed. I’ll be right back.”
I shake my foot to revive some feeling, then rub at my eyes to better focus. Is this really happening? I need to think. Socks... I pull on a second pair, remembering how wet my feet were last time with Hatsu. I grab a third pair to keep in my pocket just in case. What else?
I spin, turning this way and that. I pull on an additional cotton slip to layer under a long Western skirt, a sweater that no longer fits my belly and rides up, then my gray hand-me-down sweater to keep my arms warm. I won’t need my bag if I keep adding clo
thes on my back. I even cover my head, taking no chances. There’s no telling what will happen, and this time, it’s bitter cold.
Chiyo’s screams have turned to sobs. She begs Housemother Sato, “Do something, please, do something.”
There’s another shriek, then more back-and-forth from Housemother Sato and the other girls. I stand frazzled in the middle of my room, eyes darting every which way. Oh, the lamp. I swipe matches from the table and cram them in my pocket.
Sora runs back in. “I told Housemother you were ill, that I’d fix your tea and stay with you all night.” Her brows bunch when she sees my outfit. “What are you wearing?”
“Everything,” I say.
“Okay, good. Let’s go.”
Sora ducks her head out the door again, then waves me to follow. I thread my arm through my coat’s sleeve, grab the lamp’s handle and teeter after her, lopsided. Heavy footsteps pound the floor, and we freeze. One second, two...but no one appears. Chiyo’s cries mask our remaining steps to the door.
“Go,” Sora whispers, opening it.
I don’t look back.
With my bag in hand, Sora falls beside me, then takes the lead. The moon sits high and casts long silver shadows. We hug them, scurrying through the clearing as fast as my underused legs will allow. A frost has set, and the brittle ground crunches with every step.
“Come on, hurry,” Sora says over her shoulder as we near the small footpath. Like a smoke-breathing dragon, a white puff of frigid air blooms with her words. “Be careful.”
I push weary legs faster. My scarf falls, exposing my face, and I puff my own dragon’s breath with the exertion. The thick, overhead canopy of bare-boned branches grabs the moon’s light and squeezes, releasing only glimmers to filter below.
I hold up the lantern while she digs in my pocket for the matches. I position the lamp.
There is a flash of sparks, then a steady flicker appears. The flame takes to the wick with ease, and with a quick shake of her hand, the stick is extinguished.
Sora takes the lantern in one hand, holds my almost-empty bag in the other and leads the way. Light bounces over the trail to illuminate the path. I’m careful over the rough surface, taking slow, even steps. The crisp night air bites with fierce teeth, but I’m bundled and temporarily warmed with hope.
I am leaving.
Without the rain, the steep embankment is easier to manage. My bag is tossed to the bottom, and I hold the lamp while Sora steps down. It sways from the handle, the yellow beam rocking with uneven coverage.
“Okay, ready?” She holds her arms up as if to catch me and my mind flashes in memory to Housemother’s yank. To Hatsu. To how she fell.
Positioned backward, I step down, and swing my leg to find lower footing. I hand her the lamp, then brace myself. I can do this. My body’s tired, but my spirit is alive and fueled by the taste of freedom. It’s right in front of me. Another step down, one more, and I practically fall into her outstretched arms.
“Come on.” She lifts my bag, holds the lantern high and starts toward the footbridge.
My heart drums to propel my march. One step, then another. My stomach clenches hard. I stop, my hands wrapping over my belly.
“Naoko?” The light from the lamp swings in my direction to land on my cheeks.
I straighten and take a deep breath. “I’m coming.” We are so close. I step up and onto the bridge, glancing over as I hurry past. The water churns under a thin sheet of ice, trapping the koi below. Goodbye, my old friend Ganko, persistent fish. This time I will not return.
“Naoko?” She whisper-shouts. She’s at the gate. The lamp sits near her feet. My bag toppled over on its side. She works the key in the lock as I approach but turns, flustered.
“Sora? What is it?”
She shakes her head, spewing large clouds of vapor. “It doesn’t work. It’s not—”
“What?” My gaze drops to the key in her hand, then up to the gate’s lock. “Here.” I take the key and try. Maybe it’s just cold or frozen. My heart stops. The teeth won’t thread. I try again, and again. Lifting the key, I study it, then look to the lock. Oh, no. “This isn’t the right key.”
Our eyes anchor to one another in shock.
“Now what? I’m not going back. I can’t.” I fold. The cramping returns.
“Please, Naoko. You must stay calm. You haven’t been well.” Her arm rests on my shoulder.
I stay half-bent, holding myself, breathing through the strange sensation until it passes. “I am fine. Try again.”
Sora tries the lock once more, then shoves at the gate. It only creaks with the sway. Looking around she finds a rock. One strike after another creates only smashed fingers. I watch, frozen in fear. My midsection squeezes in another unpleasant hug.
What happens now? What if we cannot get out? I watch Sora hit at the lock again and again and focus on the fence. Bamboo is known as both yielding and triumphant. I want it to yield, so I can be triumphant.
I want out.
I fix on the three-inch stalks strung and woven together with shuro nawa, black palm fiber cord. “Sora, try the twine. Strike the twine.” We should have brought a knife. Why didn’t I think of this? Because she drugged me. “Ah...” Again, I hunch over and grimace in pain. I try to stay quiet so not to distract her. Please let it work. Please.
Sora tries a sharp edge and tries to slice through it, but it only frays. She growls in frustration. “It’s not working.” Another strike, then again.
“Wait.” My eyes go wide as I consider the lantern. A flash of excitement engulfs the thought. “It may not budge, but it will burn.”
Her bleak expression brightens. Dropping the rock, she digs deep and produces the small book. Inside, there are only six or so matches left. She looks back and forth along the fence and steps to the ones beside the gatepost.
She runs her hands against each other while blowing warm breath on the crisscrossed twine. One strike of the match and it sparks to life. We huddle together and hold the small stick to the cord and wait. A thin transparent wisp of smoke rises above it, then the match at her fingertips snuffs out. We try again and again.
It’s not working. “Wait!” I remove the lantern’s glass cover and crank the wick high. Holding it at an angle, the flame licks the bound cord. There’s smoke. Small spindles climb the air. The twine bubbles and retreats, exposing the cane.
“It’s working!” Sora and I look at one another and grin.
I hand her the exposed lamp, and she lowers it to the next knot to patiently let it smolder and smoke. Again, bare cane is revealed. She works each crosshatch nub, then moves to the next stalk and the next.
I watch, still holding my belly, praying for this baby to hold on. Just awhile longer. A few minutes of patience will earn a lifetime of peace.
After each row is complete, Sora wrangles the shoot free. Then two...now five are down. We require a few more. She works quickly to get us out. I stay still to keep my baby in.
Sora reaches for my bag, tosses it out and motions for me to go next. I turn sideways and wiggle through, scraping my belly and backside against the slats, but I manage to get free on the other side.
Freedom fills my lungs.
Sora follows and looks back and forth in either direction. “Which way?”
The train station is to my right, and in my mind, I have retraced those steps ten thousand times, but know I can’t go home. So, I look to my left and move along the endless bamboo fence, my arms wrapped across my belly. It tightens but I step through, my contorted face hidden behind my scarf. Just a little longer.
“Where?” Quick steps catch up to mine. “Where will we go, Naoko? And what if your baby comes?”
“It is fine. The baby will settle as soon as I can rest, and the nuns and monks walk by here every day, so their monastery cannot be far.”
* * *
I’m exhausted.
Sora and I now wear whatever clothes remained in my bag and sit huddled together on the case, bundled, layered and warm. My middle still cramps, and I do my best to hide it. I fear the exertion has started an early labor, so I try to stay calm and think only agreeable thoughts.
“I am glad you’re here, Sora.” I snuggle on her shoulder with heavy lids, the surge of energy from before now depleted, leaving me lethargic and drained.
I drift in and out, a meditative slumber, disturbed only by the tightening of my midsection. I think of Grandmother’s teacher and student story, the one with the spider, and imagine one descending from the sky to rest on my belly. It is an ugly creature and stares with several beady eyes. I want it to leave, so I blink away the vision only to have it return.
In the story, the student reports the spider to his teacher, saying he plans to place a knife in his lap, so when it next appears he can kill it. The teacher advises him to bring a piece of chalk. “When the spider appears next,” he says, “mark an X on its belly, then report back.”
When the spider appears again, the student does as the master suggested. Later, the teacher asks him to lift his shirt. There’s an X. The story’s meaning? We often wish to destroy what we’re scared of, but by doing so, we destroy ourselves.
Yes, I am scared, but I have embraced my fear. Chiyo refused, just like Aiko, and so many others. How do they feel knowing what they have done? Does this not destroy their hearts?
“I’m grateful you have seen the spider on your belly, Sora.” My voice sounds distant. I am not sure the words were spoken or that I’m even awake. “Ahhhhh!” My stomach tightens, and I fold over to wait it out. It’s intense. Something warm and wet pools between my thighs. “Sora... Sora!” Another contraction.